Stitched Up In You
by xephwrites
Summary: Sammy gets hurt on a hunt and it's Dean's fault. WARNINGS: Incest, underage Sam is 16 , hurt/comfort. If you think I missed anything, please let me know.


The three of you were on a hunt. Sammy got hurt, badly. He got hurt and it was your fault. You weren't paying attention and it lunged at you. Your brother knocked you out of the way, and took a razor sharp claw to the side of his ribs. His scream is still echoing in your head.

While you tended to him, Dad killed it. He sent a sharp look at both of you, but said nothing. Just salted and burned the body as you stripped your brother's coat off. It's bad. Stitches bad, not hospital bad, thankfully. At sixteen, he's big, gangly, but you sweep him up in your arms like he's five once again.

Dad's driving, and you're in the backseat with Sam. Pressing what gauze you have in the car to the long wound, you hope the bleeding stops soon. He looks at you with pained, fearful eyes. You whisper to him that you're sorry, that you screwed up and he shouldn't have to pay the price. You fight the tears that are forming. He tosses a glace to the back of Dad's head before mouthing that he loves you. Kneeling in the foot well, you press your forehead to his and clutch his hand.

Dad grumbles that you're at the motel. The car jolts into park and Dad gets out. You untangle yourself from the foot well and open the door. Dad is waiting to help you pull Sam out. Carefully, you maneuver him between the two of you, and carry him to the motel room.

He hisses as you lay him on the bed. Dad begins to pull out painkillers and what is needed for stitches. You strip off his shirt and start to clean the wound. It's deep, still pouring blood, and going to scar. Dad hands you a few white pills and a glass of water. You hold Sam's head up, whispering to him to take the pills. He nods and takes them, drinking the water greedily. Dad is standing at the door, motioning to you to follow. You look back at Sam, knowing that it will take at least fifteen minutes for the pills to work before you can start stitching him up.

Outside of the room, Dad yells. You hang your head, as you have nothing to say for yourself. He yells that either one of you could have been killed. He yells that you should have paid better attention. You stare at the concrete, mumbling the occasional "Yes, Sir." There is no amount of guilt he can put on you that will make you feel worse than knowing you caused Sammy to get hurt.

Dad says something about checking in with Pastor Jim. You nod, promising to be ready to leave in two days time. He hands you a wad of bills to cover the room and food. You stand in front of the room, watching Dad make sure that he has everything in the Impala. Before he gets in, he looks at you like he has something else he wants to say. He only nods and slides in the car.

Back in the room, he looks at you with glassy eyes. You take the dental floss and sewing needles and sit beside him on the bed. The painkillers have started working. You tell him you love him and brush the hair off his forehead. You place a light kiss on his lips before you start.

You try to steady your hand as you thread the needle. It takes a few tries before it works. And you start.

Carefully, you slide the needle in, whispering apologies every time he hisses in pain. You hate doing stitches normally, and this time is worse. And you're thankful that Dad left. It would raise too many questions if he saw how you were reacting.

Twenty. Twenty carefully placed stitches made of green floss. Setting the needle aside, you grab a square of gauze and the tape. You position it carefully over the wound and tape it up. You give him another kiss before packing away the supplies.

Dad left behind a bottle of whiskey. You take the bottle and drink a mouthful. It burns going down, and hits your stomach like a bag of bricks. You take another drink, and you hear mumbling from the bed. He's sitting up, hand outstretched to you. You stare at the bottle. Why the hell not? The kid went through shit today. He deserves a drink. You walk over to the bed and hand him the bottle. He takes a large mouthful and chokes it down. You can't resist the chuckle when his face scrunches up and coughs. You take the bottle back and mumble something about playing with the big boys now. He settles back onto the pillows and looks at you.

It's that look. The one that says everything from "I've got your back" to "I love you, you are my world" and even "Never leave me." You take one last drink from the bottle and put it back on the counter. You double check all the wards and salt lines before turning off the lights. Stripping down to your boxers, you slide into the bed beside him, curling against his back. You place your arm across his hip, and kiss the back of his neck. He presses back into your embrace.

Not even a minute later, and he's asleep. You lie in the dark, listening to his rhythmic breathing. Tonight was close. Too close for your liking. Instead of dwelling, you drift off to sleep, holding him tight.


End file.
